The Ranger Read online

  He could have bested either man if he’d wanted. But preserving his cover was all that mattered.

  He’d “lost” many times before. He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. He sure as hell didn’t care about impressing the lasses—or any one lass in particular. Pride could get him killed.

  “Which wasn’t good enough to win,” Dugald pointed out, just in case he’d forgotten.

  He hadn’t.

  “The next church is just across the river,” the friar said, in a welcome change of subject.

  They’d just come through Ben Cruachan, the highest mountains in Argyll, along the narrow, steep-sided pass of Brander or Brannraidh, place of ambush. Appropriately named, he thought. Opposite them lay the relatively flat, grassy land on the southern bank of Loch Etive.

  “You mean Killespickerill?” Arthur asked. The ancient church in Taynuilt had once been the seat of the Bishop of Argyll.

  “Ah, you know of it?”

  Arthur exchanged a look with Dugald. The good friar was obviously unfamiliar with the history between the Campbells and MacDougalls. “A bit,” he said in an understatement. The small village of Taynuilt was located at the key juncture of Loch Etive and the river Awe, which connected three miles downstream to Loch Awe. Lorn’s lands, but close to Campbell lands. His jaw clenched. The former Campbell lands, that is.

  “If you wish to make Oban by nightfall we shouldn’t stay long. We’ve still a good twelve miles to travel.”

  At this pace it would take them another two days. It seemed as if they’d visited every church between Tyndrum and Loch Etive. Not that Arthur was complaining. It gave him more of an opportunity to scout the area. When Bruce and the rest of the men marched west to Dunstaffnage to face Lorn, they would pass through this same countryside. Their slow pace would also delay his return to the castle, which was fine by him.

  But joining the friar hadn’t brought him any closer to discovering how messengers were slipping through King Robert’s net. They had to be churchmen, but so far not this churchman. He hadn’t seen the friar slip anything in or out of the leather sporran he wore around his waist. Nor had he discovered anything last night while the friar slept, when he’d taken the opportunity to make sure.

  “Brother Rory makes the best pottage in the Highlands,” the friar said. “You won’t want to miss it.”

  The last church had had meat pies, the one before that jam. Arthur suspected the stops at the various churches were more about tasting the local specialties than ministering to the faithful. Not that you would know it by the lance-thin churchman. He was more bone than flesh, and hearty of temperament rather than girth.

  They crossed the river at the bridge of Awe and followed its banks, skirting the edge of the forest to the south. Simple gray stone cottages peppered the landscape, becoming more numerous and closer together as they drew nearer the village.

  A few minutes later, nestled in the center of the lazy village on a small rise, the old stone church came into view.

  There were a few people about, mostly women, and the light sounds of laughter and children playing ruffled through the air.

  He stilled, hearing the traces of a song. A woman’s voice. His senses buzzed as if a bee had just passed behind his neck.

  “Is something wrong?”

  The friar, seated behind him, was close enough to pick up on his reaction. Arthur waited. His gaze flickered back and forth, but there was no sign of anything unusual, nor did he pick up the unmistakable air of danger.

  He shook his head. “Nay, nothing.”

  They continued on into the churchyard to the small building behind, where the priest slept and ate.

  Friar John was good to his word. Brother Rory’s pottage was indeed one of the best Arthur had ever had. After two bowls he would have been content to sit on the bench in the priest’s garden and enjoy the crisp summer afternoon, but they needed to be on their way.

  As he pushed back from the table, he heard it again. Singing. Louder this time. The sweet, musical tones were stunning in their beauty, filling him with a sense of awe like that which occurred when beholding a natural wonder. Like a perfect sunset. Or the mist upon a loch at dawn.

  “Who’s that?” he asked almost reverently.

  Brother Rory gave him a strange look that shook Arthur out of his trance. He’d spoken without thought, not adjusting for his keen hearing.

  The priest listened and seemed to realize what he’d heard. “Ah, the lady is visiting from the castle today. She must be singing to Duncan—he loves nothing better since he returned than to hear the lady sing.”

  Arthur froze. His senses no longer buzzed, they clamored. It couldn’t be.

  Oblivious to Arthur’s reaction, Brother Rory continued. “Her visits are looked forward to by everyone. She brings such cheer.” His chest puffed with pride. “The lady never forgets us, or the people who have served her grandfather.”

  “What lady?” Dugald asked.

  “The Lady Anna. The Lord of Lorn’s youngest daughter. An angel sent from heaven, that’s what she is.”

  More like sent by the devil to torment Arthur.

  Dugald took one look at Arthur’s face and burst out laughing. “Sounds like the lass has tracked you down.”

  Arthur couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t have found him … could she? The other men would have returned yesterday.

  He shook it off. Nay, it was impossible. A coincidence. An unfortunate coincidence.

  Brother Rory looked confused by Dugald’s jest. “The lady comes every other Friday. As dependable as mist on the mountaintops. Do you know her?”

  “A little,” Arthur said, before Dugald could respond.

  Even more anxious to leave than before, he hurried to the post in the garden where they’d tied their horses.

  Unfortunately, Lady Anna chose this moment to leave the small cottage she’d been visiting.

  She stepped out on the path, not more than fifty yards away, and turned to wave goodbye to the woman and two small children who stood in the doorway. The sun caught her hair in a halo of golden light.

  He felt a strange skip in his chest. He’d thought about her more than he wanted to admit, and he’d be damned if seeing her didn’t make him feel a brief flash of …

  Hell. It felt like happiness. As if he’d actually missed her. But of course he hadn’t missed her. She was a nuisance. An adorable nuisance.

  Her gaze turned in his direction.

  He saw her startle and knew she’d seen him. But she pretended not to, spinning around and heading quickly down the path toward the loch.

  Away from him, her guardsman following trustily behind.

  Arthur frowned. Not because she’s just ignored him, he told himself. Nay, because of her guardsman. Her solitary guardsman.

  Before he could think better of it, he shouted, “Lady Anna!”

  He could see her shoulders lift to her ears from here. Why that particular movement irritated him, he didn’t know, but it did.

  Ignoring his grinning fool of a brother, he retied his horse to the post and strode toward her.

  She seemed to stiffen—stiffen, damn it—straightening her spine and bringing her basket closer to her side, almost as if she were preparing to do battle.

  “Sir Arthur,” she said in that soft, breathless tone that he’d forgotten. Right. She looked past his shoulder to his brother. “Sir Dugald. What a surprise.”

  It didn’t sound like a pleasant one. What the hell was the matter with her? Had her interest drifted already?

  That’s what he wanted, blast it.

  He stopped right in front of her, perhaps a step too close. If he didn’t know himself better, he’d say he was trying to intimidate her. Using his size to block an escape. But he wasn’t a barbarian—he didn’t do things like that.

  “Where are the rest of your men?” he snapped.

  Her brows furrowed, creating those little lines atop her nose. “What men?”

  He tried to sound p